Mercy
by xXfireXflyXx
Summary: ONE-SHOT ; Voldemort watches her.


Hi (:

This is a little one-shot about Voldemort watching a woman in a nightclub. 'Mercy' by Duffy inspired me to write it... I'm sure I'm not the only one out there who has been inspired by it. There are references to the song in the story, as it's implied that that's the one she sings. If people like it, it may turn into a short story one day. I don't know. I've never written a one-shot like this before. It's a bit weird to me. Anyway. Enjoy!

* * *

He ventures there every night.

It's a sweet release. A delicate escape. He takes a table at the back, in the shadows where none of _their _kind can see him, bother him. He arrives just after seven, her act starts at eight. For an hour he smokes a cigar and sips slowly on a glass of scotch. It's a mockery, the way he sits. He dines like the snobs who serve him. The ones who express themselves to be utterly pure and devoid of sin, but he sees past all that, and they know it. He looks into their soul and digs up their innermost flaws, their secrets.

The waitress knows him now. She never asks anymore, and merely brings him his bottle. It's expensive, but he puts it on a tab, knowing that one day when it is time to pay for the bill, he can end a life and effectively destroy the tab. A flash of green, and not of money. That's all it would take for him.

He knows that they follow him. Not the enemy. No, he's too good for them. The ones that follow him are the ones that know him. Or like to think they know him. His servants. His dogs. They trail behind their master, thinking themselves stealthy, and watch his nights curiously. They put on an air of ignorance when they turn up in the circle, masks covering their guilty faces, but he knows just what they see.

And what do they see? They see him. He is tall, slim, with dark brown hair and changing eyes, like the weather. He wears the clothes that they offer him as gifts. Fine suits. Silk sometimes. Greens to please his old house tastes. He does it to mock them, but none of them can see past pleasing him. And then they see her. She is also tall, taller when she wears those heels. Skinny legs. Dark make-up around her eyes. Blond hair up in one of those ridiculous beehive hairstyles. Small breasts, but there's an attempt to make them look bigger every night. Sometimes she succeeds, but he could care less. That's not what he comes down for.

His men scatter around the bar at the rear of the club, past the tables surrounding the stage that form what would appear to be a proper audience section, their minds an open book as he looks back at them. They look away, pretend to be in conversation, but once again he sees past that. They want to know who she is to him. Why he is at that table every night with a cigar and bottle of scotch. Why he won't tell them. Why he is so secretive. Why he is so dangerous. Is he safe? What if someone tries to take his life?

Simpletons. They cannot grasp that they are with _them_. How could _they_ kill him? The filth. The dirt. Even she is dirt. She's complete scum and he knows it. Maybe that's why he likes to watch. He feels imperfect when he does. Torn in his ideology. But sweet Merlin; when she's up on stage, he doesn't mind.

Eight o'clock. Time moves quickly that evening. An announcer informs the usual patrons that she would be performing in five minutes. There is an excited buzz in the air. His tongue flickers out, tasting it as he dubs out the cigar in his ash tray, sick of the mockery for the time being. His bottle of scotch has yet been properly broken into. The mood to drink isn't there that night. A desire to simply hear her voice, the one that he hates but secretly adores at the same time, is ever-present.

The lighting sudden dims the best the scum can make it. The curtain stays closed up on the small stage, the red velvet pleasing to the eye amid the musty club scene. Two back-up singers slink out, grinning appreciatively at the catcalls they get. He looks past them, irritated at their presence. Annoyed at their too-short skirts. Infuriated with their air of all-knowing as they take their position behind their designated microphones. They take away from her. They do. They do, they do, they do!

The few seconds that he waits for her to come on are agony. Time finally slows. The ambiance grows thick with his intolerance for the people around him. His men sense it. They try to be more obvious that they do not see him. It only adds to the fire. Where was she? One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds. Had something gone wrong? Eight seconds.

And there she was.

The first thing he saw was the fishnet tights. She never wore those. He didn't like them. He wanted to burn them from her skin. Burn them, then peel it all off slowly and listen to her squeal. Why would she wear those? She wasn't a common street whore. They distract him from the elegant red cocktail dress that fans out around her thighs, one that tries to amplify her lack of breasts. It makes her skin seem even paler. It clashes with the curtain.

She steps up to the microphone and grasps it with both hands, her painfully red lips pulling up into a smile as she nods her head at the enthusiastic cheers. Her leg wobbles. It's her sign of nerves. Her face is always steady, but her legs wobble. He likes to watch them. When the applause dies down, the music starts. It's a quick tempo. He likes those better. They make his blood boil and simmer, but for two separate reasons. She sways back and forth in time, confidence radiating from her large eyes.

She sings about mercy. She begs a man to stop playing games. Then she admits that she's under his spell. He grins. A feral grin, one that make all his men shift uncomfortably in their chairs. The chorus is repeated too many times. Too much back-up harmonizing. He doesn't like her dress still. But she sings passionately about mercy. She begs him for mercy.

There is a beginning, a climax, and a falling to the song. He likes the climax best. He always does. Once the number is over, he pours himself a full glass of scotch. It helps tune his brain to allow the rest of the entertainment for the night. Sometimes she sings solo, like now. Sometimes she switches with a back-up singer and hums along to someone else. He doesn't like it when that happens. Not at all. But he stays. He ignores the bar fights in the back. His men start to abandon their curiosity-driven mission and return to their wives at midnight. He waits for her back in the alley, a flower from some chit's garden in his hand. Cleaned, of course. The stage exit is in the alley. He stands perfectly still against the wall of the neighboring building.

The door opens at two. He has been standing there for ten minutes. She usually takes that long to get changed. He times her. Her peers exit first, in groups. Some women smile at him suggestively, but his steely gaze keeps them walking. Their arms link. Their giggles echo. They know who he is here for. She pushes the heavy door open with a grunt, stepping out in her high heels. Her legs are bare. Tights inside, no doubt. A large black overcoat covers the dress he hates so much. The tips poke out to tease him.

She stops in front of him, like she always does. And like he always does, he gives her the flower, gives her an honest review of her performance - "Your dress clashed with the curtains. A back-up dancer is getting too fat for the stage... Your legs still wobble. And I hated the tights." She nods, playing with the flower delicately, her disgustingly filthy fingers thumbing over the petals. Maybe to check for insects. She knows where it comes from. She doesn't know where he comes from. She doesn't know his secrets. His magic. She doesn't even know his name. He knows hers, but he will never utter it. Never plague his tongue with the name of someone like her.

Her eyes look up at his, and she tries to hold his gaze, but he looks away quickly, glancing up and down the alley. He will leave in a moment. She cannot take up too much of his time, after all. He stares at her, finally, then turned sharply on his heel and stalks off into the dark alley. She stands alone, the flower in her hand. He looks back as the fog of a washer blows out the ventilation system. This was his nightly routine, and he would be back tomorrow. She could beg him for mercy all over again.


End file.
